


Someone To Turn To

by The_Advocate



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Capture, Doesn't go too far, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what I'm doing, M/M, Patron-Minette - Freeform, Post-Seine, but probably disturbing anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 20:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Advocate/pseuds/The_Advocate
Summary: It had been awfully close, too close. Inspector Javert had been missing, more specifically captured by the Patron-Minette, for several hours before the police, with Jean Valjean in tow, found him in the cellar of an old winery.





	Someone To Turn To

It had been awfully close, too close. Inspector Javert had been missing, more specifically captured by the Patron-Minette, for several hours before the police, with Jean Valjean in tow, found him in the cellar of an old winery. 

Valjean knew something was very wrong the moment the police broke down the door. Javert was pinned to the wall by a tall, savage looking man. The man, he must have been a member of the Patron-Minette, had his hands hooked around Javert’s hips and his mouth firmly plastered to the inspector’s straining neck. Javert had been stripped of his waistcoat and shirt and several long scratches covered his arms and back, as well as a nasty bruise that spanned the width of his shoulder. Several other of the Patron-Minette had been standing about, enjoying the show, and startled when the door slammed open and police officers flooded in. Javert’s eyes, which had moments before spoken of barely controlled panic, took on another variety of alarm when he realized his colleagues had finally arrived.

Humiliation should always be dealt with in private. He had tried to explain that to Jean Valjean after the June insurrection; fortunately, Jean Valjean had not listened to him. However, this was a different brand of indignity, and certainly not one he was prepared to face in front of those to whom mutual respect was paramount. 

The man released him immediately and Javert stumbled back against the wall, trying to quickly take in his surroundings. He made eye contact with Valjean for a moment, before ducking his head and shrinking further into a corner. Remarkable how Valjean manages to be present for each and every of my new lows, he thought sourly.

Valjean by passed the chaos, which had taken over the room as the arrests ensued, heading straight for Javert. 

Javert could sense Valjean standing in front of him, blocking him out of view from the rest of the room. He understood what Valjean was doing, even appreciated it, but he did not look up at the man, did not dare to. What was he to do if he found disgust on his face? Derision? Anger? Shame? Or pity, that damned emotion that had consumed Valjean’s visage for weeks after he had pulled Javert out of the river? 

On Valjean’s part, he stood resolutely in front of Javert, attempting to win him any privacy he could from the mixed crowd of gangsters and police. He studied the new cuts marring his skin, the blotch of red forming on his neck, and, most of all, his down cast, fearful eyes. Fearful. That was not a term Valjean associated with Javert. He had not been fearful when the boys of the barricade had given him a death sentence. He had not been fearful when staring down into the depths of the Seine. 

Javert never was, never had been, a fearful man, so when Valjean saw that emotion written, even subtly, across the features he so adored, he was overtaken by a feeling Javert had not thought to disparage. Valjean was concerned.

Valjean placed a steadying hand on Javert’s already perfectly still arm as the last of the officers and gangsters filed out of the cellar. Thankfully, none glanced back at the remaining couple.

Once alone, Valjean leaned closer and whispered, “Are you all right?”

Javert nodded gruffly, still refusing to look at him.

It was a stupid question, he knew, but he was at a loss of what to do. None of Javert’s injuries were immediately life threatening, and he knew, without needing to hear it said, that Javert wanted time to collect himself.

Javert shivered slightly and folded his arms across his bare chest. 

Oh, his clothes! That was something he could do! Valjean cast about the cellar and, sure enough, a heap of familiar clothing lay in the corner across from them. 

Valjean hurriedly retrieved them and attempted brushing away some of the dust before giving the shirt to Javert.

He took it, cursing his shaking hands.

“Thank you, Valjean. I just-” he rubbed the reddened area of his neck, “need a moment. Damn!”

What had started off as an absent minded rub, turned into an aggressive scratch, as Javert became aware of the saliva that lingered on his neck. 

“That ingrate! He . . .” Javert cut himself off and stared angrily back at the ground as his nails continued to bite into the contaminated skin. 

Valjean quickly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, “Javert, let me.”

Javert’s hand dropped to his side as Valjean placed a palm against the side of his neck to steady it, and gently wiped away the filthiness with the handkerchief. When he had finished, he leaned in slowly and left a circle of soft, warm kisses around the irritated skin and then another on Javert’s burningly flushed cheek. Normally, such an affectionate display would have caused a shiver of delight to run down Javert’s spine, but, in the moment, it simply brought a warmth to the numbness he had been experiencing. To be comforted- to be taken care of- was a new sensation Valjean had been forcing him to come to terms with for quite sometime now.

“Is that any better?”

The stark contrast between his inhuman treatment at the hands of the Patron-Minette and the tender affection Valjean was showing him made Javert’s head spin. He stumbled forward, catching himself by the lapels of Valjean’s coat. Valjean immediately wrapped his arms around him, a hand cradling the back of his head.

Before Javert could say a word to excuse himself, Valjean was rubbing circles in his back and murmuring reassurances in his ear. Javert could not find it in himself to speak, so he simply let himself be held and breathe in Valjean’s scent. Part of him was horribly reminded of the days following his dip in the Seine, where Valjean’s arms had always been there to comfort him even when he insisted it was futile, but, mostly, he felt peace. How could he not? Ever since Montreuil-sur-mur, Valjean had radiated tranquility and gentleness. It was one of the things Javert adored about him.

Valjean was strong, but consummately kind and considerate. He always preferred privacy, undoubtedly because of his years of hiding, but that was another thing he appreciated about the man. In essence, Javert mused, his head still resting against the crook of Valjean’s neck, he is the opposite of that criminal. 

What was his name? The other members of the Patron-Minette had been shouting it, catcalling as Javert’s shirt had been removed and thrown into a corner. The other man was stronger than Javert, nearly as tall, and surrounded by allies, so even if he struggled there was little chance of escape. That’s what they wanted anyway; a struggle. Javert refused them the satisfaction. Then he had shoved Javert against the wall.

Suddenly a wave of nausea struck him and he stepped back from the embrace, however keeping his grip on the front of Valjean coat. He ducked his head as it spun and he tried to get his bearings. Banish recent memories.

“What’s wrong?” Valjean asked anxiously as the man swooned in front of him.

“Nothing, nothing,” Javert hastened to reassure him, though obviously still discomforted, “I suddenly feel a little sick. That is all.”

Valjean glanced distrustfully around the cellar as though it had personally caused all of Javert present suffering. “We ought to get you out of here. I imagine the stale air of this place isn’t helping anything.”

Javert nodded once and set about redressing himself. He cursed his clumsy movements. Was that all it took to fry his nerves? One embarrassment and he could no longer satisfactorily tie a cravat?

Jean Valjean, seeing his struggle, silently took over from Javert’s unsteady hands; tied his cravat, straightened his slightly askew waistcoat, and smoothed away the wrinkles from the shoulders of his shirt.

When he had finished Javert hesitantly asked, “Am I . . . presentable?”

Valjean gazed back at him with a look that he reserved for only Javert and Cosette. It held all the love that that great heart had to offer.

“As handsome as ever,” he replied softly.

Javert was unsure what he had done to merit such a look and such a comment from Valjean, so he ignored it.

“I don’t want them to see me in this state,” he remarked matter of factly. Jean Valjean cocked his head as the inspector continued, “It was foolish, really. I should have known better than to follow Montparnasse. It was clearly a trap. Truly, it is my own fault.”

Valjean’s brow furrowed under his mop of curly, white hair. “What are you saying?”

“Simply that I doubt I’ll receive praise for this,” he chuckled humorlessly.

Valjean was unamused. “This was not your fault. How can you speak this way?”

Javert felt an uncomfortable, unfamiliar stinging at the corners of his eyes.

Jean Valjean caught his hands and held them to his chest. “Let’s go home, mon cheri.”

Javert nodded. He could think of nothing he wanted more.

*

Throughout the duration of this scene, neither Jean Valjean, nor Javert noticed the young officer standing just beyond the doorway, cautiously watching the events unfold. He was a rookie, no older than nineteen or twenty, who much admired the inspector and had doubled back to the cellar when he had noticed that Javert’s unusually tall silhouette was missing from the mass of policemen and criminals outside. This officer had been one of the first through the door and consequently had been made aware of the compromising position his superior had been found in. Concerned, he had retraced his steps and found that man- Monsieur Fauchelevent, he believed his name was- already attending to the Inspector in the sweetest, most attentive, intimate manner. 

Perhaps he should have been surprised, horrified even, but the only emotion the young mind could muster up was relief that the stoic inspector had someone to turn to.


End file.
